A Man Alone
by Theodore Hawkwood
Summary: "They go insane, they go to jail, they die, they become alcoholics or they fight in other people's wars." Following eight years of service in the French Foreign Legion, Conrad Hart was once again a man alone. But even a man alone must consider the future. Written for the Room's Memoir Madness Challenge.
1. Honor and Fidelity

Honor and Fidelity

Disclaimer: I own neither NCIS or G.I. Joe.

* * *

 _Legio Patria Nostra._ The Legion is our Country. These words are the bedrock of _La Legion Etrangere_ or the French Foreign Legion. I spent eight years of my life in the Legion. It has only been a few days since I was discharged.

Unlike some I did not leave _La Legion_ under a cloud by deserting. No. I left because a wound sustained by a grenade exploding near my head in the Central African Republic left me with hearing intermittent in my left ear.

In the trackless expanse of civilian life I bought a train ticket to Marseille from Aubagne following my discharge with the few possessions I cared to retain. I really don't have a destination in mind. Where do I go from here, I wonder?

A Legion NCO once said this of Legionnaires who leave the Legion, "They go insane, they go to jail, they die, they become alcoholics or they fight in other people's wars."

I can tell you none of those options appeal to me at all, though I think I am somewhat insane at times. Jail would be worse than war. Alcoholism is a jailer all its own. And fighting other people's wars? No. A mercenary for hire is not what I planned.

Perhaps a better way to answer the question of where to go from here can start where I have been.

Very recently a young woman asked me what I believed in. I told her one thing I believe in is _Le Code d'honneur du legionnaire_ , or the Legionnaire's Code of Honour. Its seven articles were the bedrock of my life for the past eight years.

The first article is this, "Legionnaire, you are a volunteer serving France with honour and fidelity."

 _Honor et Fidelite_ , Honor and Fidelity, two words emblazoned on the colors of the Legion. Two words that mark the ethos of the Legionnaire.

Honor and Fidelity. I feel I served my eight years according to those words...for the most part. There is one moment where I felt I failed to live by these words. And it is a moment I must answer for at some stage. I pray it doesn't include me crossing the River Acheron.

Sitting at a waterfront cafe overlooking the docks, with a bottle of _Kronenbourg_ and some _steakfrites_. And who should I see but that same young woman. A woman who is not what she seems.

* * *

 **Docks of Marseille  
** **Marseille, France  
** **Ziva David and Conrad Hart  
** **09 September 1999, 1152**

Conrad Hart looked up from his meal of steak and fries, eyes narrowing as he noticed the young woman heading towards his table. As she approached she asked, in perfect French, "Is this seat taken?"

"What the devil do you want?" Conrad countered, glaring at her.

Ziva David inwardly flinched at the now ex-Legionnaire's hostility, but she continued to look the man in the eye, "Is the seat taken?"

Conrad nodded, though he still glared at the young woman. He stayed silent until she took her seat. _Looks like an innocent young woman, would grow up to be a real beauty. But she's as deadly as a scorpion. Best to treat her as such._

"Again, I ask what the devil do you want?" Conrad asked, eyes narrowing in the French sunlight as a waiter arrived.

The waiter turned to Ziva and asked if he could get her anything. The young woman asked for a glass of water. The waiter trundled off to fulfill that order.

"My organization has an offer for you, now that you are no longer in the Legion," Ziva replied simply.

"I am not a mercenary," Conrad countered.

"You were a Legionnaire. Are they not mercenaries?" Ziva asked.

At this Conrad's expression darkened, "Legionnaire, you are a volunteer serving France with honour and fidelity. That is the first section of _Le Code d'honneur du legionnaire._ That alone should tell you Legionnaires are _not_ mercenaries, _mademoiselle._ "

"You no longer are in the Legion," Ziva intoned, her dark eyes moving to the scarring near Conrad's left ear, "What happens to Legionnaires after they leave the Legion? Is it not said that, 'They go insane, they go to jail, they die, they become alcoholics or they fight in other people's wars'."

Conrad glared at her, "I am sure I have other options, _mademoiselle_."

"And I am here to offer you another," Ziva replied calmly.

"And I am not a mercenary for hire," Conrad countered, "Though a Legionnaire no longer, I still live by a code, _mademoiselle_ , and I just recited the first part of it."

"You said you are not a Legionnaire," Ziva replied, "So that part of your code is not logical."

"Yes, but I still live by the two words _Honneur et Fidelite_ ," Conrad replied.

"Point taken," Ziva replied, "But I do want to ask why you are so hostile towards me?"

"I committed a traitorous act," Conrad replied.

"Thorvald Wulfram was a war criminal," Ziva replied, "You do know of his past, remember? Service on the Eastern Front with 3rd SS Panzer Division, _Totenkopf_. To include being a company commander during the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising of 1943."

With a sigh Conrad replied, "I know of his past, and I elected to help you. That time. I thought I made it clear that I would help you on that occasion."

"You did, _Monsieur_ Hart," Ziva replied, "But I thought…"

"You mean whomever you work for thought," Conrad snapped.

"...that you would appreciate some form of employment." Ziva continued, in spite of Conrad's venomous reply.

"I don't need charity. Nor am I a mercenary," Conrad replied.

"So what are your plans," Ziva asked.

"I am currently on what Aborignal peoples of Australia call a walkabout," Conrad replied, "Then I will formulate a plan."

"If you do change your mind, I will be in Marseille for a week more," Ziva replied, before she stood up and left.

As she did so he noticed her walk to another table, where an older fellow wearing glasses and nursing a cup of coffee sat. He saw Ziva go to talk to the man.

 _Clearly they know each other._ Conrad thought as he glanced up from his meal. The old man and Ziva left the cafe. _By the man's body language he seems upset with her._

* * *

 **Hôtel du Sud Vieux Port Marseille  
** **Marseille, France  
** **Ziva David, Eli David, and Ari Haswari  
** **09 September 1999, 1233**

"Not bad, _Zivaleh,_ " Eli David began as they sat down on the sofa in their hotel room, looking over at his daughter, "But you should not have walked straight for me. Mr. Hart made me as a result of your action."

Ziva stiffened, feeling her heart race as Eli mentioned how he got 'made' by Conrad earlier. Made. Intelligence slang for compromised, which is what Conrad had done when she walked over to him.

She glanced over to the easy chair in the room where Ari sat, reading a magazine. Eli waited another moment before speaking, "So what were your impressions of Mr. Hart?"

"Stubborn. Idealistic," Ziva replied, "Driven by some strange blend of warrior pride and Catholic guilt."

"So what do you think motivates him? Money? Ideology?" Eli asked, eyes narrowing.

"Certainly some sort of idealism," Ziva replied.

"See if you cannot use that ideology to help us," Eli replied.

"Yes, _abba_ ," Ziva said, "I will do my best."

"Ziva. See if you cannot recruit Mr. Hart to work for us," Eli replied, "Ari will be your back up tomorrow."

* * *

My day's walkabout concluded with a cold cognac at a bar along the waterfront, across the street from the hotel I am staying at for now. Trudging upstairs, replaying today's events, I walk into my small room, closing the door behind me and latching it.

Pouring a glass from the bottle of cognac in the freezer I sit on the sofa. Almost nine years ago I flew to Paris intending to join _La Legion_. This followed an episode of misguided nobility on my part while attending San Diego State University as a Naval ROTC midshipman.

Her name is Brook. Brook Campinelli. Her family moved to Daytona Beach when I was in the 6th Grade. I still remember the first time I ever asked her to dance was in PE class. We got to be good friends from then on, but I didn't ask her to dance again until Homecoming during our Freshman year at high school.

As I down another sip of coganc I remember the summer before our junior year of high school. That phone call where I asked her out on a date two days after I got my driver's license. Then we dated through the rest of high school, and even into college, where we attended San Diego State University on NROTC scholarships.

Brook was on the Marine Corps option, because she wanted to be a JAG officer and the Marines were recruiting at the time. I picked the Navy option, aspiring to follow in my father's footsteps in the US Navy SEALs.

At one point Brook and I discussed getting married, but halfway through junior year at SDSU we broke up. Why? She told me she was too young to get tied down. That maybe we should take a break.

That I could understand, as much as it hurt. But I understood why on some level. That still meant we barely spoke to each other for the rest of junior year. It took me that time and halfway through that summer before I realized I was being a heel. Brook was my friend long before she was my girlfriend. Suffice to say we managed to mend our friendship. But our romantic relationship was over.

His name was Trent Bailey, he was a senior and in the NROTC unit when we were freshmen at SDSU. I didn't like him from the start, the way he looked at Brook. I didn't like it one bit. She thought I was just being jealous. But something told me that guy was rotten. Anyway, after he got commissioned in the Marine Corps he was stationed close to us at Camp Pendleton and started hanging out back at SDSU.

I ask you, have you ever put it all on the line for someone, only to be betrayed? That is how I came to the French Foreign Legion.

I fought Trent Bailey, but it wasn't due to jealousy. Recall my instincts told me that the man was rotten. I had a sneaking suspicion he wasn't treating Brook right. He was always acting all jealous about her. I'd even hear him gaslighting her about fights they'd have. I even had overheard one or two of those fights when I visited her off campus apartment and he happened to be there.

It was one day during our senior year that I learned the depth of abuse Brook was enduring. She told me that he hit her and that it had been going on since a couple months after their first date. When she rolled up her sleeve and showed me the bruises I had enough.

I went to where he and several of his friends were at a bar off campus. I was seeing red that night. I punched him in the mouth after I confronted him about what he'd been doing to Brook. I don't remember much more of that particular evening other than seeing red and hitting him repeatedly. I wanted only one thing. To make him pay for what he did to Brook.

How was I betrayed? Well it's rather simple, really. I got taken in for assault, but Trent declined to press charges. I didn't know until later that there was another plan behind it. I faced a disciplinary hearing at my NROTC unit and expulsion from the university.

It was at my disciplinary hearing where I testified under oath that Brook had been abused. But she stayed silent. She didn't admit anything she told me. I put everything on the line for her only to be betrayed.

To make a long story short I was expelled from the NROTC program and was barred from graduation. Thanks to some professors' intervention they at least allowed me to finish my degree.

I let so many people down. My family, especially because my father had served for thirty three years in the US Navy, Brook, my friends. I couldn't face them after that. I gathered what money I had for a plane ticket to France where I would ultimately join the Legion.

Finishing the glass I decide it is time to sleep. I will walk some more tomorrow and maybe decide on my next course of action.

* * *

" _Behold the knight,  
_ _In solemn black manner.  
_ _With a skull on his crest  
_ _And blood on his banner."_

 **\- From a 15th Century German poem by Garnier von Sustren**

* * *

Sleep takes me to the edge of a forest, bordering a meadow dotted by poplar trees and summer flowers. I see a dark haired, slim bodied man in the full dress blues of a US Marine Corps officer. The twin silver bars of a US Marine Corps captain adorn his shoulders.

"You," I declare angrily, storming into the field.

"Show some respect to a commissioned officer, Hart," Trent Bailey says as I approach.

"Respect you do not deserve, namely because of the abuse you inflicted on Brook." Fists clenched as I approach.

"I am still an officer of Marines," Bailey says, that infuriating and sadistic smile. The one that makes me want to feed him his teeth.

It is as I approach that I hear the sound of heavy footsteps. The sound of a horse and rider. At the edge of the meadow, silhouetted against the horizon is a knight. Even from this distance I can see the black surcoat and the white skull emblazoned on it.

"You'd better run, Marine," I spit angrily, stopping in my tracks. Every time I dream of this knight and this field whoever I speak to at this field dies. At the hands of this knight.

"Your friend in the tin can doesn't scare me," Trent replies.

"He's no friend of mine."

"Trent Bailey, for abuse of Brook Campinelli, I sentence you to death." The knight levels his lance and then begins to charge. Both us begin to run, but the horse means the knight is catching up and glancing behind me I see Trent Bailey impaled through the back by the knight's lance, blood flowing from the wound and from his mouth.

Running, sprinting through the forest, hearing the knight approaching, gaining ground. Stopping short. A precipice. The knight stops short, covering my retreat.

"Who the devil are you?"

I hear a gravelly voice reply, "Who the devil are you?"

"Hart, Conrad. _Caporal-Chef_ , French Foreign Legion," I declare with what dignity I have left, waiting for the killing blow.

* * *

Sitting up in bed. Eyes opening wide, I feel my heart hammering. This is the fifth night in a row that I've had this dream. And every time it's the same. Someone is killed by this Knight of the Skull.

What the devil does that dream mean? Yet another thing to ponder on tomorrow's walkabout. Maybe I should just start pondering it now. There is no way I am going back to sleep…

* * *

TBC


	2. Brothers in Arms

Brothers in Arms

Disclaimer: Same as before…

* * *

 _Le Code de Honneur_ , its seven articles are the foundation of the Legion. After the fourth week of the arduous four months of basic training at _Le Castel_ we stood in ranks and recited them before we, as one, donned the _kepi blanc_ for the first time.

As I walk along the water's edge at the docks of Marseille I cannot help but think, how does that code apply to me now that I am no longer a _Legionnaire_. Perhaps the past can hold a clue for how to apply this to the present.

Most of the first article of the code doesn't apply anymore, as I am no longer a Legionnaire in the service of France. But it's core principles, _Honnoeur et Fidelite_ are things I always have believed in. Honor and Fidelity. They seem outmoded in this last year of the twentieth century. But they still resonate for me.

For all the good it's done me, I've chosen to live those two words. Taking the fight to Trent Bailey for the abuse he subjected Brook to, was done in the name of honor and fidelity. Honor demands one protect those that one cares for. Fidelity means standing true to that word. Despite the fact that Trent Bailey is an officer in the Marine Corps he is decidedly not an honorable man, given how he gaslighted Brook and abused her. The mysterious Knight of the Skull from my dreams killing him for his actions was the right thing to do. If it were not illegal for me to do so, I'd gladly send the bastard to Hell! In that respect I commend the knight for his actions.

For all the good it did me I was a loyal and faithful friend and boyfriend. And when I needed Brook's friendship the most, when I needed her to tell the powers that be that she had endured abuse. She sat there mute. Forsaken and disgraced, a man alone. That was my fate. Abandoned by someone who said she was my friend. Who once claimed she loved me. That day I felt I had nothing left.

Leaning against the wall of a cafe I reach into a pocket, pulling an envelope left unopened over the span of eight years. I look over its front, recognizing Brook's delicate and careful penmanship.

For the sixth time in as many days I tuck the letter back into my pocket. I haven't opened it in eight years, and I'm not about to do so now. As I reach into my pocket I feel the corner of an old photograph poke my finger. I ignore it. It is a trip down memory lane I best not take.

Continuing my walk along the harbor I continue to think. How well did I live by the Code of Honor? It's second article says, "Each legionnaire is your brother in arms whatever his nationality, his race or his religion might be. You show him the same close solidarity that links the members of the same family."

Very recently I betrayed that article. Thorvald Wulfram was an old man. Who knew how many years, or more like months, or perhaps weeks or even days, he had left on this planet? And I allowed Ziva to kill him.

After being wounded in Africa I was detailed to the Legion's retirement home at Puyloubier. There I spent some times among _les anciens,_ the elderly veterans of the Legion. One thing about the Legion, for all its austerity and at times harsh discipline, is that it takes care of its own. A _Legionnaire_ is often an orphan to the world. Once he joins he need not return to the world that rejected him in the first place.

Wulfram had nowhere left to go, and Puyloubier was his home. Only one old comrade would visit him occasionally, an elderly Finn named Olavi Koskinen who had served in _5th SS Panzer Division, Wiking_ during the Second World War. Wulfram was an elderly, broken man. And I allowed Ziva to kill him.

I clearly betrayed that part of our code. At the Gates of St. Peter I must answer for that transgression among others. I can only pray it doesn't condemn me to the icy depths of Lake Cocytus.

As I walk down the street the first line of that part of the code resonates in me. _Each legionnaire is your brother in arms regardless of his nationality..._

It is the way of _La Legion_ that the legionnaire's first loyalty is certainly not to France, but to _La Legion_ itself. And it is personified by his loyalty to his mates. And I allowed Ziva to kill one of our own, an _ancien_ who at best had a few months left to him.

As far as who this Knight of the Skull is? I haven't the faintest idea. Never once in all the times he has appeared in my dreams has he revealed who the devil he is.

Perhaps he is there to convey me to the River Styx, across the Acheron, for my misdeeds in this life. _Legio Patria Nostra_ , the Legion is Our Homeland. A sacred tenet of our Code of Honor. But Wulfram had the blood of innocent people on his hands. He deserved what Ziva gave him, no doubts about that.

But he was still a legionnaire. And we legionnaires do not betray our own. At the end of my days, am I destined for submergence in the lowest stratum of Hell for my transgression?

* * *

 **Docks of Marseille  
** **Marseille, France  
** **Conrad Hart and Ziva David  
** **10 September 1999, 1148**

"I'll tell you, again, _mademoiselle_ ," Conrad coldly began, "I know what you want and my answer is no."

"But what will you do now, Conrad?" Ziva replied, "Will you follow that time honored path of ex-legionnaires past? Going insane? Dying? Going to jail? Becoming alcoholic? Fighting others' wars?"

"I. Am. Not. A. Mercenary." Conrad slammed his half empty glass of cognac down onto the table.

"You wouldn't be a mercenary if you worked for my group. You would be well compensated for your work." Ziva replied.

"Mercenary. I'm certain according to Meriam-Webster, or Roget's Thesaurus if you prefer, the definition is 'a soldier for hire'." Conrad glared back.

"You would be a soldier…" Ziva began.

"Pfah!" Conrad spat back, taking a slug of his drink, "Are you going to swear me into your army? A man from a formation that has allowed former Nazis into its ranks?"

"But…" Ziva began.

"Don't try and convince me," Conrad replied, eyes narrowing, "If I were to die in the service of your bosses, you'd deny I even worked for you. I'm through being used!"

"Used...but we don't…" Ziva protested.

"Don't try to lie to me. You're no better than _Herr Goebbels_ in the Second World War!" Conrad replied, "I will not dishonor myself by being little more than a deniable mercenary for your organization."

"Were you already not a mercenary?" Ziva asked, not backing down.

"Each legionnaire is your brother in arms whatever his nationality, his race or his religion might be. You show him the same close solidarity that links the members of the same family." Conrad replied, "That second article of the Legionnaire's Code of Honor alone shows I am no mercenary! Legionnaires historically have had only one loyalty, to one another. And to the Legion itself."

"Yet you helped me kill one of your own," Ziva replied, a smile on her face.

" _Herr_ Wulfram needed to go to the Gates of Saint Peter," Conrad replied, "But for my actions, I too must be judged. But why shall I make it easier to be cast into Caina? Hell's lowest circles are reserved for betrayers."

"Does the _Divine Comedy_ influence how you live, Hart?"

"No, but the Legionnaire Code does." Conrad replied, "And I betrayed it."

"Your code, your personal code, has to say something about loyalty to those who don't deserve it," Ziva replied.

"Yes. A contract with a liar or a fraud is null and void." Conrad replied.

"And you did choose to help me," Ziva replied.

"The man needed to face justice for his crimes during the Holocaust." Conrad countered, "Thus I chose to help you, once. Though God only knows what price I paid for doing so."

"You seem to think you were doing a good thing in helping me," Ziva argued, "So why walk away from the opportunity to do more good?"

"The cost," Conrad replied.

"What cost do you bear, Mr. Hart?" Ziva asked, leaning closer to him.

"Betrayal of the Legionnaire's Code of Honor. Remember the first line of the Second Article, 'Each legionnaire is your brother in arms…'. By letting you kill Wulfram I betrayed a brother in arms. If I were to die right now, it is possible I would be damned to the lowest circle of Hell…" Conrad snapped back.

"Dante," Ziva concluded coolly, "Was many things. A theologian he is not."

"And you are?" Conrad snapped, anger rising in his voice.

"I am not. But we both know, Mr. Hart, without some kind of structure in your life you would go insane." Ziva looked him in the eye.

"Hah! Only to be denied and expended when my use to your group ended...no." Conrad angrily replied, "I am a man of honor. Not a mercenary!"

"As you know, I will remain in Marseille for the rest of the week if you reconsider." Ziva finished her drink before leaving.

A few minutes passed. Conrad picked at his meal and drank liberally of his cognac before ordering a second. As his second came up, he heard the sound of footsteps and he turned to see an old man wearing a black three piece suit walking towards him.

"I see your lovely companion has left," the man replied.

Conrad looked at the old man, raising his cognac, " _Bonjour,_ old friend."

"Trouble with the lady, Hart?" the old man asked as he took his seat.

"She's no lover, my friend," Conrad growled.

"Then who is she?" Olavi Koskinen replied as a server came up to them. After he requested a glass of Kronenbourg he turned back to Conrad

"It's a long story, my friend," Conrad replied.

"I suppose that old Wulfram's obituary might not be entirely accurate?" Koskinen raised an eyebrow.

Conrad nodded, "Her French is quite good. And she claimed, when I first met her, that she was a French university student trying to write her thesis on the Indochina War."

"A smart woman with an eye for history," Koskinen said, "I have to admire her cover."

"She's Israeli. In all likelihood Mossad," Conrad observed, knocking down a bit more of his second cognac.

"I have to admit I am not surprised Wulfram's past caught up to him," Koskinen replied, "And no, Conrad, I am not presuming your role in this. Let us not speak of that anymore."

"She wanted to recruit me to her organization," Conrad admitted.

"I surmised as much," Koskinen replied as his Kronenbourg arrived and he took a pull, "And your response was?"

"No," Conrad replied, "After all our code…"

Koskinen smiled slightly before setting his glass down, "Conrad, I was a _legionnaire_ before the code was written in the 1980s. But we didn't need a code to tell us that our first loyalty was to the Legion."

"And suffice to say…" Conrad began. Koskinen raised a hand.

"I did say I did not wish to talk of this. I am neither your judge nor your confessor. You will need to settle that somehow."

Conrad regarded the elderly Finn for a few moments, "Alright."

Koskinen asked, "So what will you do? Surely the traditional paths for a _legionnaire_ aren't ones you are interested in."

"Not at all," Conrad replied, "Honestly I'm on a personal walkabout to figure out what to do next."

"Don't leave Marseille just yet, Hart," Koskinen smiled, "I think I can make a couple of phone calls…"

Conrad raised an eyebrow, "What kind of calls?"

"Not the sort to put you in a jail cell, my friend. You can be assured of that. But perhaps a place for you to go for a time." Koskinen replied.

The waiter arrived and Conrad reached for the check only for Koskinen to grab it, "Consider the meal on me, my friend."

"My thanks," Conrad replied.

Among Europe, and to a lesser extent, the world's castoffs did I find camaraderie and purpose. Things that I lacked when my life was derailed from my plans nearly nine years ago. I still remember that painful day at San Diego State University. Where someone whom I loved, for all the good that it did me, betrayed me when I put everything on the line for her.

Taking another sip of cognac as memories wash over me like wine from an ancient vintage. Feeling the fire pooling up in my stomach as I think back over the years. The memory of a first and tragic love comes to mind.

In the Legion it is a tradition that one carries a sweetheart's photo inside the _kepi blanc._ Through all eight years of my time in _La Legion_ I carried Brook's photo with me in my cap. And on every mission when I was at war.

I hold that same laminated photo in my hand, with my own dried blood browning its corners, pulling it from a well-worn leather bound notebook I always carry. How beautiful she looks. That dark brown, almost black hair of hers worn down just slightly past her shoulders. Her clear blue-green eyes shine, pairing well with that warm smile that captured my heart so many years ago when I was younger and more innocent.

I remember our first date when I picked her up from her parents' condo in Daytona Beach Shores before we went for lunch on that summer day on 3 June 1986. After we had our meal we walked along the beach arm in arm with each other.

As I close my eyes I feel the soft summer breeze, Brook's arm hooked around mine as we walk down the sandy shore of our hometown. Hearing the waves crash against the sand. The smell of the sea.

I remember her turning to face me, and my doing the same as her arms gently wrapped around the back of my neck. My own arms go round her waist as our lips meet. My eyes close. My heart races. It's a slow and gentle kiss.

It was the first time I had ever kissed a woman. And it was a day I discovered that to love and be loved in return is the greatest feeling in the world. Something I still believe in.

Yes, that day of my first date with Brook Campinelli, will remain a day I will treasure all of my days. Even if, on 23 June 1989 she would end up breaking my heart with that 'too young to be tied down' piece during our junior year at San Diego State University.

I recall angrily hurling the engagement ring I bought her into the sea. I was angry, broken, dejected. It took me six months before I was able to even speak to her again. We were friends long before we were lovers.

And then I found she had been abused by this new fellow she was seeing. And on an early spring day in 1990 I went to teach Trent Bailey a lesson. Acting upon an ancient sense of right and wrong, like a knight of old charging forward to do battle with an evil foe.

For all the good that it did me I gave of myself freely to Brook. And when she could have testified about the abuse. She denied it. And for that my life was thrown into tatters.

For me, then, the Legion was my refuge. _Legio Patria Nostra._ The Legion is our Homeland. I was determined to make myself the best Legionnaire I could be, so I could put the past behind me. Yet, I too, betrayed.

I allowed Ziva to sneak into Wulfram's room and inject a slow acting poison into his bloodstream. I did not see her do this.

An elderly ex-legionnaire, and former officer in the 3rd SS Panzer Division, _Totenkopf_. Wulfram maybe had a few weeks or even days left to him. Yet I let Ziva hasten his time to meet God when I disabled the security cameras at Puyloubier.

I may have escaped judgment for that act. But there is always God's judgment that I will face when it is my time. I hope I shall not be condemned…

* * *

Sleep that night brings me to the top of a hill. Looking down into a valley shrouded in thick fog. Hearing the beat of a drum, playing a beat to a song of _La Legion. Ich Hatt'einen Kamaraden._

"You recognize the tune?" a voice to my right says.

I turn to see Thorvald Wulfram clad in the camouflage pattern of the Indochina War, _kepis blanc_ atop his head. No longer the shriveled, elderly man that I allowed Ziva to kill, he now looks as he did in his prime. Slim and athletic, his blond hair slicked back underneath the _kepis blanc_ , as he appeared in an old photograph in his room.

"I do, _Herr Wulfram_ and I…" I begin.

"Don't even think to apologize, Hart," Wulfram replies, "But I ask, you recognize the tune."

" _Ich Hatt'einen Kameraden_. An old German lament, which the Legion adopted." I reply.

"It's also know as _Der gute Kamerad_ , the Good Comrade." Wulfram replies in an almost professorial tone.

"They never taught us that," I reply.

"I maybe had a few weeks or months left, at most." Wulfram continued, "But you still allowed Ziva to kill me. Do you know that you've betrayed one of the most sacred tenets of the Legion, that a legionnaire's loyalty is to his brothers in arms."

As the first lyrics of the song plays I see a line of skeletal legionnaires emerge from the fog, wearing the tattered uniforms of the Indochina War, white _kepis blanc_ atop their heads, and weapons shouldered.

" _I had a comrade. None better shall you find._ " the skeletons sing as they march along. More of them march forth from the fog.

"Do you think you could have allowed me those few weeks or months before I face judgment?" Wulfram says with a sigh.

"What allowances did you make for the civilians you had killed in Warsaw when you were with the _Waffen-SS_?" I reply, "You have crimes you are to answer for at the Gates of Saint Peter."

"As if you did not take justice into your own hands, Hart? Did you not execute many Cobra prisoners…" Wulfram challenges.

The skeletons marching inexorably onward continue to sing, " _The drum called us to battle. He marched by my side. At the same pace._ "

"They were guilty of crimes such as rape and murder." Angrily I clench my fists, "It was simple justice."

" _A bullet came flying. Meant for you or me?_ " More skeletons sang as they advanced along the valley floor.

"So you were judge, jury, and executioner, Hart?" Wulfram snaps back.

" _His life from mine it tore. At my feet a piece of gore."_ The skeletons sing as more emerge from the fog, " _As if a part of me._ "

"Was it better to allow them to live and perpetrate evil? No." I reply, stabbing a finger angrily at his chest.

"Don't lie to me, Hart, you simply followed the maxim of might makes right."

"Big difference between killing those suspected of rape, murder, and human experimentation versus innocent civilians, Thorvald!" Fist clenched.

More of the skeletal legionnaires emerge from the fog, " _His hand reached out to me. I must reload my rifle._ "

And from across the valley, I hear the sound of hoofbeats. Laughing cynically, "You'd best run, _Herr_ Wulfram. For somewhere lurks a knight and every time he appears someone dies."

I turn around to see the knight emerge from the trees behind us. Mounted atop his horse, clad also in the black barded armor with a skull upon it. Leveling his lance he charges forward and before Wulfram or I can even think to run Wulfram is struck down through the back by the knight's lance.

The knight wheels around to face me, staring at me through his visor. From the corner of my eye I see Wulfram rise from the ground. No longer at the prime of his life nor aged to its near end. No. He is but another faceless skeleton and he walks down the hill to join the parade of cadavers marching across the field.

" _My friend I cannot ease your pain. In life eternal we shall meet again._ " Wulfram sings along with the marching ranks of skeletal legionnaires, " _And walk once more as one._ "

"What the devil are you waiting for?" I ask, "Go on and finish me. Is that not what you want?"

The knight raises his lance and in that same gravelly voice says, "Behold the knight. In solemn black manner. With skull on his crest and blood on his banner…" The knight turns around and shepherds the formation of skeletal legionnaires into the fog.

* * *

I sit upright in bed, looking at the alarm clock by the bedside. It's three-forty-two in the morning. There is no way I am even attempting to go back to sleep. This dream of ghostly legionnaires is new.

I recognize the German poem, a favorite of mine since high school by Garnier von Sustren. I have long been fascinated by knights and chivalry, ever since my grandmother told me tales of King Arthur and similar folks as a young boy.

Between those tales and stories of my father's days as a member of the US Navy SEALs, I was inspired to pursue that path. But that dream was dashed to pieces by a barfight my senior year of college at San Diego State.

Though both the US Navy and the California legal system disagree, by my own moral code I was in the right. Trent abused someone who could not or would not protect herself. Therefore he deserved to have a stronger man who cared for Brook beat him.

I turn on the clock radio for a bit of music, and oddly enough Edith Piaf's _Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien_ plays in the early morning air.

" _So to Hell with the past!_ " Piaf sings.

 _Je Ne Regrette Rien._ Four words spoken by every legionnaire who has finished his service. It means 'I regret nothing'. It is, however, a lie to a greater or lesser extent for many...

* * *

TBC


	3. Courage and Loyalty

Courage and Loyalty

 **Disclaimer:** Same as before…

* * *

Walking once more around the harbor of Marseille as the sun rises over the horizon. The sky red and fiery. Glancing at my watch, which reads 7:13 A.M., I remember that in the Legion it would be at 5 A.M. (or 0500 as military time labels it) that _appel_ or roll call would be sounded.

I had been awake this morning well before the traditional call of _appel_ as nightmares of this ghastly Knight of the Skull have been haunting me for the past six days. What the devil does he want? Clearly not to kill me, because as of yet he has not killed me in my dreams. Perhaps he is saving me for last?

I stifle a yawn as I walk down the street, smelling the salt air from the sea breeze. Once again I am reminded of home, Daytona Beach. Can I return to it? Technically, yes. I've got my US passport back and renewed, I only need sort out a flight and I can be aboard it.

Right now would not be the best time to return, I decide, as my fingers touch down on a recent wound near my left ear from a Cobra grenade that exploded near my head on a distant battlefield in the Central African Republic.

What of San Diego? There are always jobs there, even contractor type jobs...No. I will not return there. There are simply far too many painful memories of that city for me to even contemplate setting foot in it. When I left San Diego after the fight at SDSU I left with a broken heart, with nothing left to me. Brook's betrayal was the final straw.

As I push thoughts of the loss of my first love away from my mind I call to mind the third article of _Le Code d'Honneur_ of the Legion. Word for word it says, "Respect for traditions, devotion to your leaders, discipline and comradeship are your strengths, courage and loyalty your virtues."

Traditions are big in the Legion. One such tradition is fighting on to the last man and the last round, repeated on battlefields through history. Two such stories illustrating this stand clearest in my mind.

One took place on 30 April 1863 at the Hacienda Camerone when 65 _legionnaires_ under the command of _Capitane_ Jean Danjou were besieged by 600-800 Mexican cavalry. When approached by an envoy demanding the _legionnaires_ surrender, Danjou curtly replied, "We have munitions, we shall not surrender."

Fighting through the day, the last five _legionnaires_ fixed bayonets and charged their Mexican foes with two of them dying in a hail of bullets. The Mexican commander, Colonel Milan, stopped the bloodshed allowing the three surviving _legionnaires_ and two dozen wounded comrades safe passage to French lines. In the Legion Camerone Day is a day celebrated far more heartily than Bastille Day, the national holiday of France. To this day in the Legion it is said to go _a la Camerone_ means to fight to the bitter end no matter what the odds.

The other tradition is that of loyalty to one's fellows. During the battle of Dien Bien Phu in 1954, when the garrison was isolated, many _legionnaires_ , parachute trained or not, volunteered to jump into a losing battle, facing certain death or capture.

To me there are few braver acts than volunteering to parachute, in the dark of night, especially without training, into a meat grinder of a battle. Yet when the call for volunteers went out every _legionnaire_ stepped forward. Officers had to tell volunteers no, in order to keep their units at full strength for actions elsewhere in Indochina.

The Legion's paras were the elite of the Indochina War. Often parachuting in to save beleaguered garrisons under siege by the Viet Minh. They paid for that hard reputation with heavy casualties in savage fighting throughout the Indochina War. Dien Bien Phu was the last of these battles.

 _Legio Patria Nostra._ The Legion is our country. A _legionnaire_ is an exile from the world for any number of reasons. And often he needn't return to the world which rejected him in the first place. Puyloubier is where many former _legionnaires_ return. But do I truly want to grow old in the Legion's retirement home with no one to visit me save for the occasional old comrade?

Walking down along the docks, always watching. Seeing combat with the Legion means vigilance is a near constant behavior needing little reinforcement. Ziva's offer still runs through my mind. After all, I have no intention of checking into Puyloubier and living out my years there, even if my discharge from the Legion entitles me to do so.

Talk about a tough alternative. Check into Puyloubier living among the invalids and men thoroughly rejected by the world or consider any number of contractor jobs based in San Diego. If it ever came down to that, the former would be best. Too many bitter memories in San Diego.

I see a small cafe along the road, a place to rest tired feet. A soft and quaint sort of decor, comfortable and homey. Brook would love a place like this. Best not to think of her lest I go mad entirely.

I see books on a shelf and at random I take one down. Edgar Allan Poe. Perfect for the grim mood I am finding myself in.

* * *

 **Outside of The Cup of Tea Cafe  
** **Marseille, France  
** **Ziva David and Ari Haswari  
** **11 September 1999, 1045**

"Another attempt to recruit Mr. Hart, Zivaleh?" Ari asked as he parked the Renault in the first space he could find.

Ziva glanced over at her half brother and partner on this mission, "Yes. He has extensive combat experience with the French Foreign Legion and he has proven to be a useful asset."

"In eliminating an elderly former Nazi, yes." Ari said, "It might have been safer to burn him."

Ziva knew what Ari meant by burn, intelligence slang for denying ever using an asset. This was especially useful if an asset was becoming more of a liability. Burning could also mean intentionally compromising an agent or asset.

"The man does have extensive combat experience with the French Foreign Legion. He could be useful for our operations." Ziva replied, "That must mean why _abba_ wants to recruit him."

"It was rather obvious Mr. Hart wasn't interested the last time," Ari replied, "Why are you wasting the energy on trying to recruit him?"

"Perhaps it is possible to turn him to our side," Ziva replied, "He could be helpful considering his extensive combat experience, especially against Cobra, which is an emerging threat."

"Are you sure this isn't one of his tests?" Ari replied, "Remember how he used to blindfold you and leave you in the forest to find your way back."

"It is a mission to recruit an asset, Ari, nothing more." Ziva curtly replied.

"Alright," Ari nodded, "Just remember _abba_ has often said that every man has his levers. Figure out Hart's and you've got him."

"I've had the training, Ari. And _abba's_ lectures." Ziva replied, stepping out of the parked car and heading inside.

* * *

As I turn the book to a random page I feel my blood run cold. _El Dorado._ This is a favorite poem of mine, ordinarily. Given it begins with references to a knight and my nightmares involving one, I may want to reorder my favorites as far as Poe's poetry goes.

Indeed since things with Brook eight years ago I see references to what happened in every stanza, nearly every line. I see in the first stanza, referring to the gallant knight in sunshine, echoes of myself at SDSU. A time where Brook and I were happy and planning a future together. It feels a world far removed from now.

From the sound system in the cafe I hear the beginnings of the song _Fields of Gold_ by Sting. A more poignant and beautiful love song has never been written, in my eyes. That song came out almost three years to the day that Brook and I last saw each other. Memories of those days Brook and I shared run through my mind and I go back into reading the poem _El Dorado._

While Brook and I were dating I remember saying that I'd found my own _El Dorado_ when we shared love for one another. But like the knight seeking his _El Dorado_ I see no ground that resembles those happy summer days. And over my heart a shadow fell when I lost what I had remaining to me when I put it all on the line for Brook only to be abandoned.

Maybe if Brook is still single, maybe we can return to those summer days. I would trade all I have to feel that way once more. But can I really love her after that betrayal? I recall hearing somewhere that if you love someone you can forgive them of anything.

Yes. I am willing to love her, forgiving all wrongs. Brook will always have a special place in my heart. I would give all that I possess to have those summer days back again. For that sure knowledge that we loved one another. For that innocence, for that sureness.

In my heart of hearts I know this as far as Brook is concerned. All is forgiven. But I am not sure if it would be quite so instant. If I were Lord of All Trent would swing by his neck until dead for what he did to Brook. I stand by beating him, because he deserved it and far worse. I would happily kill him for what he did to Brook. And should he threaten her again, I am resolved to take his life. Heaven forbid he should harm her again. I _**will**_ avenge her if that happens.

If you love someone you are to give your all to her and she to you. If you violate that you are to swing by the neck until dead! Especially if you commit an act as heinous as abuse! To me an abuser becomes a subhuman, fit only to be killed. Exterminate the brutes!

I've never made promises lightly. There are some I've broken. And for that I am not sure where to go from there.

For all the good that it did me I loved Brook. She shattered my heart into fragments, yet I forgive her for it. Does this mean I am a fool? Probably. But if I heard Trent harmed Brook today, I would be on an aircraft tomorrow. And this time I would kill the bastard without hesitation.

Love, for all the good that it's done me, is what drives me to do this. Loss and pain is why I chose to leave for the Legion. But my intermittent hearing in one ear means that I can no longer give to the Legion.

It is a cliche that men join the Legion because they were spurned by women they may have loved. But it is a cliche rooted in fact. I am living proof of such a cliche. I would give all I possess today for one more chance to make things right with Brook.

A first love is one not easily forgotten, and I am not sure I would be the better for it if I somehow were able to forget about Brook entirely. I feel I would lose something of myself, something that is important to me.

One thing I also know for sure, if Trent were within my rifle sights I would shoot him in the stomach without hesitation! _Vae Victis._ Suffering to the conquered!

From my notebook I pull the small picture of Brook and hear a female voice from behind me, "A beautiful woman."

Turning around in my seat, glaring, "What's it to you?"

* * *

 **The Cup of Tea Cafe  
** **Marseilles, France  
** **Ziva David and Conrad Hart  
** **11 September 1999, 1050**

Ziva walked into the cafe, eyes scanning her surroundings. The first things she noted were the exits, then the occupants as her thoughts flowed rapidly. _That old man sitting there, nearly asleep. He is not a threat. The woman on a laptop is preoccupied, but she could easily be conducting surveillance. That couple in the corner are clearly absorbed in one another, newlyweds maybe? There's Hart right there._

Ziva saw Conrad sitting at a corner table, his back to her. In his hands was a book, and to his right was an open notebook. She could see a photograph on the table beside the notebook and as she neared Ziva noticed the photograph was of a smiling young woman. Her dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, contrasting her clear blue eyes.

"A beautiful woman." Ziva began.

Conrad wheeled around, a stony glare on his face, "What's it to you?"

Ziva walked towards the seat directly across from Conrad, noticing that the former _legionnaire_ did not let her out of his sight. She let the hostile reaction roll of her back. _I have found another lever._

"Is it not said that men sometimes join the Legion because of failure in love?" Ziva asked as she sat down.

"When we were undergoing our reception as raw recruits in Aubagne we were shown a training video where a recruit asks his bunkmate about why he joined only to get stabbed for doing so. It taught us to respect the privacy of a fellow recruit." Conrad countered as he took a sip of his tea.

"What happened to you all those years ago?" Ziva asked, "Did she break your heart?"

"Again, what is it to you? Leverage?" Conrad angrily spat back.

 _Perceptive. But then again he is no fool._ Ziva thought before calmly continuing, "Her name is Brook, right? Brook Campinelli."

"You. Leave. Her. Out. Of. _**This.**_ " Conrad coldly replied, "Know that I will give my life for her if I sense a threat to her."

"I am simply curious…" Ziva began.

Conrad snapped back, "Hoping, no doubt, that by threatening her you could gain my cooperation. Know this, Ziva. Should any harm befall Brook you will unleash a monster far worse than anything Dante could conceive."

"I believe you, Conrad," Ziva softened, "I simply want to know what happened."

"As I stated before, I think it is because you wish to try and control me." Conrad's eyes narrowed.

"Our offer still stands, Hart. Give me a call, any time, if you reconsider." Ziva replied, handing Conrad one of the cafe's business cards with a telephone number written on the back.

Conrad nodded, though his face held a cold scowl on his face as Ziva left the cafe.

* * *

The third article of _Le Code du Honneur_ states, "Respect for traditions, devotion to your leaders, discipline and comradeship are your strengths. Courage and loyalty your virtues."

I may have very little left in this world, but courage and loyalty. Two things that mark us as men. But I will give all that I have left, to include my very life for those I love. Brook is counted among that number, in spite of her having shattered my heart to fragments.

The last measures of courage and loyalty I will give. And if that means my very life? Well that is what I _must_ give.

As a man no longer a _legionnaire_ , Article 3 can guide my ways. Courage and loyalty are the key words. I know to those I love I will give them to. Brook could well be married by now, but should anyone threaten her my full measure of loyalty and courage and my life itself will be given. For it is all I have left to give.

After placing Ziva's card in my pocket, I tuck the book on the shelf and continue my wanderings. For all the good that it did me I loved Brook with all my heart while we were together. As much as I tried to deny it, to put it behind me I love her still today.

I would 'do a Camerone' without question if I believed her to be threatened by anyone. And were she harmed, I would avenge her without any questions asked. It is all I truly have left to give.

My wanderings end at my hotel room and as I settle to bed I realize I should have killed Trent Bailey instead of simply beating him into a bloody pulp. Should I encounter him again, and should he harm Brook or have done so in the past few years, I will take his life. The virtues of loyalty and courage demand I do so…

* * *

Standing atop a hill, the meadows below shrouded in fog. I hear a familiar hymn, _Connaissez-vous ces hommes._ A Legion adaptation of the old German _Afrika Korps_ song from the Second World War.

" _Do you know these men who are marching forth here. Hear their songs and the beat of their steps._ "

Voices I remember. And indeed men I know. Men who are now dead. From lands as far flung as Brazil and the United Kingdom. My teammates from Africa. That last mission in the Central African Republic.

" _They have trampled over many roads. And that's true without doubt._ " The voices continue as I see them come into view.

From the fog the first rank emerges. _Capitaine_ Bernard Depuis, our team commander, from France. To his right marches _Sergent-Chef_ Hans Van Pelt, a Dutchman with a checkered past.

" _In Tonkin, Dakar. In Africa, Norway…_ " A list of but four places where Legionnaires have shed their blood since the founding of _La Legion._ Africa was our battleground, against COBRA.

And behind him _Sergent_ Ian Laposte, an ex-corrections officer from the United Kingdom. To Laposte's right _Sergent_ Henri Leboulletier, a Frenchman with a slightly round shape.

" _In sand, wind, and snow!"_ I see _Caporal_ Putman Livingston of the British Virgin Islands, a former tennis instructor at a resort and to his side _Legionnaire_ Lorenzo 'Renzo' Rocha from Sao Paolo, Brazil.

" _Glory to the Foreign Legion!_ " Coming to attention, singing along with my mates. _Legio Patria Nostra!_ The Legion gave me a home when I had nothing remaining.

" _Ai-O! Ai-O! Ai-O! Ai-O! Ai-O! Ai-O! O-Ai-O! Ai-O! O-Ai-O!"_ The old refrain.

" _Legionnaire in Africa! Honor your elders! March, heads held high."_ I see _Legionnaires_ Radoslav Wiersbowski, the Polish chess champ himself, and Leo Peralta, the Argentine scrounger, bringing up the rear.

" _Light in soul and light of heart. Follow your paths without fear. With honor and loyalty._ " These ghosts of my past sing.

But do I truly deserve to do so with honor and loyalty, given I allowed Ziva to kill Wulfram. Wulfram deserved to meet God and be judged harshly, but does that mean I, too shall face God and be equally judged? After all part of respect of tradition is loyalty to one's brothers in arms. And though Wulfram served in the _Waffen-SS,_ responsible for reprehensible acts to include the Warsaw massacre of 1944, he was still an _ancien_ and a brother in arms. And I allowed Ziva to kill him.

" _Ai-O! Ai-O! Ai-O! Ai-O! Ai-O! Ai-O! O-Ai-O! Ai-O! O-Ai-O!"_

In the Legion loyalty to one's fellow _legionnaires_ is the most sacred. And for eight years I lived that creed. But by letting Ziva kill one of our own, have I betrayed it? By the most strict definition, yes, I have.

But Wulfram was a criminal. A murderer. One who relished killing innocent people. He deserved to be submerged in the Phlegethon to his neck.

Yet the Legion has been a place of refuge for those the world has cast aside, including veterans of the _Wehrmacht_ and _Waffen-SS_ after the Second World War. They had a place when the rest of the world had no place for them…

Then the singing stops as the formation halts. Then they disperse, coming up the hill. With a gulp I face my former comrades at arms. I hope I have not disappointed them. And that their sacrifices were not in vain. If I can help it I will avoid the "They Die!" path many a former _legionnaire_ has tread for many years.

Can I even face them any longer? Perhaps they are here to judge me and possibly await me at the gates of Hell on my last day for my betrayal. After all a sacred tenet of the Legion is loyalty to one's fellows.

Fog once again. And the sensation of waking. Head heavy I walk towards the bathroom, turning on the the lights and then the sink. And instead of my own reflection I gaze upon a skeleton clad in the three toned camouflage of the Legion complete with the _kepi blanc_ atop his head.

The skeleton's jaw moves and I hear the words, "Behold the knight, in solemn black manner, with skull on his crest and blood on his banner."

And just like that the skeleton vanishes, replaced with my own reflection. And behind me a sinister being from my dreams once more. The Knight of the Skull.

"Conrad Hart, do you have any regrets?" the Knight of the Skull replies.

Trapped like a rat. The knight is between me and the door and there is no window in the bathroom of this cheap hotel.

" _Non, je ne regrette rien._ " Five words every Legionnaire says when asked about his service, translating into, "No, I regret nothing."

"Truly?" the Knight replies, "Not even Brook."

Does he want to threaten Brook? If so, then keeping to my word I will do a Camerone to prevent that.

" _Non, je ne regrette rien."_ I reply, watching the knight. The moment his hand goes for his sword I will charge forward. Better to die fighting than be butchered like an animal…courage and loyalty.

* * *

Sitting bolt upright in bed looking around at the room. Neither the spectres of fallen comrades nor the Knight of the Skull are anywhere to be seen. I can only pray I did the right thing by my comrades.

If they denounce me a failure, then I do not know if I can bear it. The Legion was my last chance after failing Brook. The Knight of the Skull may as well strike me down if I am condemned as a failure. Is that what he is? The one who will eventually take my life when my time comes and deliver me to judgment…

Thinking back to yesterday, where I vowed I would give all, to include my own life for those I love, Brook included I add something to that. My talk with Ziva yesterday comes to mind. Should any harm befall Brook I know one thing. I _will_ avenge it. However long it takes. However much it costs me. I will have my vengeance. That is the other half of my resolve to 'Do a Camerone'.

Splashing water on my face before changing into clothing more befitting someone leaving the confines of my hotel room that old, familiar verse enters my mind, "Behold the Knight, in solemn black manner. With skull on his crest and blood on his banner."

Well, should any harm befall Brook or anyone threaten her, then I will channel the Knight of the Skull.

I walk out of my room, out of the hotel, and down the docks of Marseilles, feeling the sun warm me. Perhaps the Knight of the Skull is kindred to me. That old verse echoes through my mind yet again as I enter a church near the docks.

It would be very fitting for Trent to encounter the Knight of the Skull if he were to ever harm Brook again. However I cannot exactly summon a knight in black armor with a skull on his crest. That doesn't mean I cannot bear such a mark. And that doesn't mean I cannot send Trent to Hell should he harm Brook yet again. And this time I won't simply beat him in a bar brawl. No, I will send him to Hell where he belongs.

Sitting in the pew near the back of the church I take my notebook and open to a blank page, sketching like a madman at the pen. What should such a crest look like. Certainly it would entail a skull.

Why a skull? Well, it is not a light matter to be resolved to kill another person. My time in the Legion certainly taught me that.

It should not, however, be completely mirroring the skull and crossed femurs of the Knight of the Skull. That is entirely too generic. That mark will be on my person for the whole of my life. It should be something unique to me.

 _Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien._ No, I regret nothing. Words that many a Legionnaire has said should he survive his service. And it is, to some degree, a lie. We all retain regrets.

The skull I bear shall sport _le kepis blanc_ , a symbol of my service in the Legion. It also serves to show that I will do a Camerone if those I deem worthy of it are threatened. Yes, that includes Brook, though she broke my heart all those years ago. She still has my heart.

Such a complex thing, to love someone who has broken your heart. To be willing to forgive the wrong done, to be willing to love her nonetheless, but never forgetting. I may have very little left in this world now, but courage and loyalty remain an option to me even after leaving _La Legion._ They may be all I have remaining to me but they will never be squandered lightly or frivolously. I still will live by these words in the trackless expanse before me.

If I can keep to the spirit two words, then I can truly say _Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien_ when my time comes to be judged at the Gates of Saint Peter…

* * *

TBC


End file.
